by A J Rivers
“Clearly, Xavier wasn’t going to get one pulled over on him,” Dean laughs. His cotton candy, baby blue compared with Xavier’s hot pink, is already partially eaten. Dean seems to take the method of filling his entire mouth with it on each bite.
“Want some?” Xavier asks, holding the sugary treat close to my face.
I pull a chunk of the spun sugar off and put it in my mouth. It’s been years since I’ve had cotton candy. I’ve forgotten how delightful it is to just let it melt in all its nutritionally useless glory on my tongue.
“Are your heartbeats up enough to head for the coasters?” Dean asks.
Xavier nods, too invested in his cotton candy to engage in any conversation. We make our way to the corner of the park containing a handful of large roller coasters and stop in the middle so Xavier can consider all of them.
“Which one would choose you, Emma?” he asks.
It reminds me of our first encounter; when he asked me which snack in the vending machine would choose me to describe itself.
I glance at all the names and find one that fits perfectly.
“The Skeleton Key.”
I’m thinking about the skeletons, but Xavier knows better.
“Ahh,” he nods. “Yes. Capable of unlocking anything from the right angle.”
Twenty-Seven
The adrenaline of the coasters gets to me. I find myself relaxing and having fun after the first ride, running from line to line with the rest of them. Watching Xavier on the rides is a wonder in and of itself. As excited as he is, he makes no show of it. He sits down, patiently waits for the safety harness to be secured over him, then stays completely silent for the duration of the ride.
There’s no screaming. No cheering. Not even laughter. He sits there and looks around as if he’s on a leisurely train ride, either hanging on to the bar in front of him or throwing his hands up into the air. But when he gets off the ride at the end, he’s bubbling over about how much fun it was.
I look forward to seeing the on-ride pictures.
After a long day, we’ve ridden everything, and an evening crowd is starting to trickle in, so it’s time to head out. We stop at a cluster of old animatronic mushrooms that stands without explanation in a flower patch between two sections of the park. We discovered earlier that they burst into song like a barbershop quartet at seemingly random intervals. It requires at least a video and a commemorative picture.
I’m admiring the snap we just took when the picture disappears and a phone number appears on the screen. I don’t recognize it, but the area code is for this area, so I pick it up. My blood runs cold when I hear the voice on the other end of the line.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks when I end the call and shove my phone back in my pocket.
“That was the police department. They say I need to come in immediately.”
We rush out of the park and head directly for the police station. I’m barely inside the building when Misty Stevenson descends on me. Her face is red, her eyes wild.
“What the hell were you doing?” she demands.
“Misty, what’s wrong? What are you talking about?” I ask.
“How could you be so dismissive? I thought you actually cared about what happened. I thought you were really coming here to help us,” she says.
“I am,” I tell her.
“Then what the hell were you doing while the police were pulling my daughter’s body out of the ground?” she asks through gritted teeth.
“What?” I ask, feeling the color drain from my face.
An officer appears behind Misty and takes hold of her shoulders, pulling her away from me as she tries to force herself closer.
“Calm down, Mrs. Stevenson,” he says. “This isn’t going to do you any good.”
“Wait, what is she talking about?” I ask.
“Agent Griffin.”
A familiar voice from behind me makes me turn around. I see one of the detectives I interacted with at the campground standing at the door to the back of the station and walk up to him.
“You want to tell me what the hell is happening here?” I demand.
“Come on back with me,” he says.
Misty is still fighting behind me and I gesture toward her.
“You’re just going to ignore her? She’s clearly distraught,” I say.
“We’re having transport take her to the hospital for sedation. She says she hasn’t slept in the last few days. Clearly, it’s starting to affect her,” he says.
He ushers me through the door and into an office where we sit down.
“What is she talking about? You found Ashley Stevenson’s remains?” I ask.
“Not exactly. I can’t go so far as to say that right at this moment. The team alerted us to your call yesterday. The responding officers didn’t seem to think there was much to the stone against the tree, but it struck my interest. This case has been hanging over this department for years now, and even though the general belief is that she ran away, there are still questions. It’s not settled until we know exactly what happened,” he explains.
“She didn’t run away,” I tell him. “And the more you repeat that, the less likely it’s going to be that you ever find her.”
“Which is exactly why I decided the schoolyard needed more investigation. We sent a team out there and they brought cadaver dogs with them. Both dogs alerted in the area around the tree. That suggests there is evidence of human remains in the area of the rock marked RIP. Now, you know as well as I do that a cadaver dog alerting to a spot is not conclusive. It doesn’t necessarily mean there was a body, and even that doesn’t prove that the person was killed,” he says.
“I know. There are a lot of things a dog can alert to without its being a corpse, but two dogs alerting to an area that has a marker on it seems compelling,” I say.
“It is,” the detective agrees. “So, we are excavating the area.”
“If you are only excavating, how did Misty Stevenson find out?” I ask. “She’s out there on the brink of snapping. Who told her what was going on?”
“The media caught wind of the cadaver dogs out there. Mrs. Stevenson showed up at the station saying she knew the dogs had to do with Ashley because your name was mentioned in the news report.”
I roll my eyes, then close them and rub the lids with my fingers. “Shit. People have got to stop thinking that freedom of the press means the right to blow up investigations.”
“We’ve tried to reassure her, but as you saw, the news is hitting her hard,” he says.
“Do you think it’s possible Ashley is buried there?” I ask.
“I don’t have an answer for that. Right now, all we have is the response from the dogs and the rock. The excavation is underway and we should have more answers tomorrow,” he says.
“Thank you for letting me know,” I say.
He looks me up and down and a strange hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“I have to say, I’m used to seeing you so put together. It’s interesting to see you a little messy.”
I look down at my jeans and old t-shirt. I’m sweaty and not wearing any makeup. My hair is tied behind my head but a good portion of it has slithered its way out of the elastic band over the course of the day.
“I was celebrating a very dear friend’s birthday today. He wanted to go to a theme park,” I tell him.
“A theme park?”
“He loves roller coasters.”
“Don’t you have enough adrenaline in your life, Agent Griffin?”
Misty is no longer in the lobby when I leave the station. I call Dean on speakerphone as I pull out of the parking lot.
“Everything alright?” he asks.
“I’m not sure. They sent cadaver dogs to the schoolyard and they hit on something near the tree,” I explain.
“Do they think it’s Ashley?” he asks.
“They don’t have any real details yet. They’re excavating the area. I’m headed over there now to see what I
can find out.”
“Alright. Keep me posted.”
“I will. How is everybody?”
“Xavier fell asleep. Sam says he’s going to stay here until you’re back,” he says.
“Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say.
I end the call and drive another few miles to end up on the empty road leading to the abandoned elementary school. Seeing how far out of town this place is makes it easy to understand the decision to close it down. There’s an isolated, unnerving feeling about the area. The fact that it’s empty and overgrown definitely contributes to that, but I don’t think even bright green grass and hallways full of students could take away all of the disconnected feeling.
The cars parked in front of the building and floodlights illuminating the entire yard are a stark contrast to the still quiet from the day before. I park and jog up to the nearest officer.
“Agent Emma Griffin, FBI,” I say. “I need to speak with the supervising officer.”
The woman gives a single nod. “Wait here.”
She leaves and I take the few steps over to the chain-link fence surrounding the yard. Threading the fingers of one hand through the gaps, I grip the warm metal and watch the methodical process in front of me.
Officers filter around the yard, which glows in the light of the bright lamps. Despite its being called an excavation, no large machines are waiting to dig out massive chunks of the land. Contrary to what TV crime shows would have you believe, those are rarely used to recover bodies at potential crime scenes. The use of a tool like that can lead to damage and loss of evidence if the investigators don’t know how deep to dig.
Instead, the process is slow and painstaking. Layers of the dirt are removed slowly and carefully. That’s what’s happening now. I can see the tarps spread on the ground around the tree and two officers with spades digging down into the dirt.
An officer comes toward me and I let go of the fence to shake his hand.
“Detective Billings,” he says. “You’re Emma Griffin.”
“Yes,” I say. “Have you found anything?”
“Not conclusively. But we’re still early in the process,” he says.
I nod and look over at the dig again. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve found that dogs are generally accurate when it comes to identifying places of interest. Does that mean a body was buried out here? That’s still yet to be seen.”
“Please keep me updated,” I tell him.
He nods and shakes my hand again. “Will do.”
Twenty-Eight
“Cadaver dogs were brought to the area behind the old elementary school today in what we’re told is the ongoing investigation of the disappearance of Ashley Stevenson, a local girl who went missing five years ago. Law enforcement declines to comment on the exact nature of the investigation or what, if anything, has been found. You might remember Ashley’s name came up during the recent horrific discovery of a series of murders uncovered at Arrow Lake Campground that rocked the local community.
“Though officials can confirm Ashley was not one of the victims of those alleged serial killers, the appeal by her mother has generated renewed interest in the case. While the FBI has been brought in to investigate the deaths at the campground, sources confirm Agent Emma Griffin, who has been involved in several high-profile cases in the last few years, is involved in both investigations.
“We’ll bring you any updates on this developing story as soon as they are available.”
He sat in his recliner, leaned back with one leg propped in front of him, watching the news. Archival footage of Thirteen’s mother making her plea to the public played in the upper corner of the screen. Occasionally pictures broke in. A big smile. A sleepy, bewildered look from beneath a red and white checked comforter. Three friends playing together in the sand.
They were the kinds of pictures meant to humanize a name said so many times across the airwaves it started to become white noise. It was the same thing that had happened five years before. The news was saturated with the desperate, dramatic story of a bright-eyed young teenager who seemed to vaporize into thin air. But only for a short time. Then it faded.
Now the story was back; they were pushing as hard as they could to force that name into people’s thoughts and conversations, as if that would make a difference. As if talking about her would make her reappear.
He looked over at his girlfriend where she sat on the couch, mindlessly crocheting a baby blanket. She was staring at the screen, too, and he wondered what thoughts were going through her mind. He turned back to the TV and the image of bright lights flooding a neglected schoolyard.
“Looks like you lost your buried treasure,” he muttered. “Keep looking. Keep looking.”
Twenty-Nine
When Misty opens her front door the next morning, she looks as if she hasn’t slept. Tugging a long, thin cardigan tighter around her body and dabbing at her nose with a tissue that has seen far better days, she steps back and gestures me inside.
The house smells like many layers of coffee. Cup after cup, brewed throughout the night. There’s something sweet among the bitter notes. On the table are two bowls of partially-eaten oatmeal heavily laden with milk and brown sugar. They’ve tried to eat breakfast.
Tried.
“Why haven’t we heard anything?” she asks.
“The investigation team wanted to take their time and make sure to search the area thoroughly. I don’t want to make any premature conclusions. They worked through the night searching the entire area. They asked that I be the one to tell you what they found,” I say.
John reaches out and grasps his wife’s hand, squeezing it tightly as he prepares himself to hear what I have to say.
“They did find evidence of human remains. But it’s not Ashley. The team found fetal remains. Most likely a stillbirth prior to viability. But the medical examiner is going to have to make a final conclusion about that,” I say.
I’m expecting Misty to seem relieved. Instead, she’s overcome. Her face goes pale and she lets out a sob before her knees buckle under her. John swoops in to grab her before she hits the floor and brings her over to sit on the couch.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, pressing one hand to her chest while covering her eyes with the other.
“Don’t apologize,” I tell her. “Are you alright?”
John watches his wife for a few seconds before looking up at me with sadness in his eyes.
“Misty lost a baby years ago,” he explains. “It’s still very difficult for her. Anytime she hears that a woman lost a child, it really gets to her. It’s been especially difficult since Ashley went missing.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say. “I know this isn’t easy for you. Everything that’s happened over the last couple of weeks must be extremely difficult. But we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to Ashley. This isn’t going to be easy to hear, but I do need to ask both of you for a DNA sample.”
I didn’t relish the idea of making that request when I headed over here this morning, but now I feel particularly uncomfortable about it. The whole idea of the baby is clearly overwhelming for Misty. But there’s never going to be a good moment to ask Ashley’s parents for DNA, so there’s no point in hesitating.
Misty looks up at me with wide, reddened eyes. Her mouth is open as if she’s so shocked by the request she can’t even bring herself to make any sound. Finally, she lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a breath and a gasp.
“They think it was Ashley’s?” she asks.
“Right now, no one is coming to any conclusions. They just have to cover all the bases. That location was obviously of significance to Ashley, so it’s important any evidence found there is treated as though it could be a part of her disappearance,” I say.
“She was only thirteen years old,” John points out. “She was just a baby herself.”
“I know,” I nod. “And I’m sorry. I can’t
even imagine how upsetting this must be for you. But it’s important that the investigation is as thorough as possible, even when it’s uncomfortable. We need to identify the mother of that baby and find out how it came to be under that rock. You can submit samples at the police station. It’s a very easy process.”
John shifts in his seat for a second. “I won’t need to take a test.”
That straightens my spine and makes my skin sting as I instinctively prepare myself for what might be coming.
“Why not?”
“It won’t prove anything. I’m not Ashley’s biological father.”
That’s not what I was expecting to hear. The tension that came into me while my mind readied to hear something horrible drains out of me, but leaves questions. They aren’t ones I’m going to ask. It’s up to Misty and John to tell me what they think I need to know.
“Alright,” I say.
Misty’s shoulders sag under the weight of a long exhale.
“I married John after Ashley was born,” she tells me. “He isn’t either girl’s biological father. But he’s been the most incredible father either of them could have.”
I nod. “I don’t doubt that. But in that case, yes, Misty will be the only one who needs to be tested. Then we’ll go from there.”
I went with Misty to submit her sample, then made sure she didn’t need anything before heading back to the hotel to meet up with Xavier and Dean and update them on everything that’s developing. Xavier is on a video chat when I walk into the room; I’m surprised to see my father’s face on the screen.
“Hey, sweetie,” he calls over.
“Dad?” I frown, taking a seat on the couch beside Xavier. “What are you two talking about?”
“Clandestine soup can concealers. The ever-present risk of unintentional clue discovery and its solutions,” Xavier rattles off.
I have two options here. I can ask him what the hell he’s talking about and open myself up for that conversation. Or I can pretend I fully understand and move forward. At this particular juncture in my life, I’m going to opt for the latter.
